


Some Future Redactor

by Sharksdontsleep



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 18th Century Sexting, Biblical References, Canonical Character Death, Classical References, Epistolary, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharksdontsleep/pseuds/Sharksdontsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>We should endeavor to keep a running record, of sorts, concerning letters responded to or otherwise dispensed with.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hamilton and Laurens correspond during the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This blends the timeline from RL and the Hamilton timeline. Folio entries are in blockquotes; notes have bolded headers; all other correspondence remains the same.
> 
> This is not a particularly happy fic at times - I've tried to warn as best as possible, but please let me know if you'd like me to add anything else. 
> 
> Thanks to puckling and marycontraire for the beta and hand-holding. All remaining mistakes are my own. Feedback, including concrit, welcome either here or at dontsleepsharks at tumblr/gmail.

Dear Mr. Laurens,  
It has not escaped my notice that, as we are meant to be conveyors of his Excellency's correspondence - and with the unpredictability of war and politics - that we should endeavor to keep a running record, of sorts, concerning letters responded to or otherwise dispensed with. 

Additionally, given the sensitive nature of these missives, and of the revolutionary effort itself, our record should represent something free from public scrutiny. I suggest this simple folio, secured with a strand of hair after each use, to ensure the chain of custody between aides.

I eagerly await your response in the matter.

Your obedient servant,  
A. Hamilton

 

Dear Mr. Hamilton,  
I was gratified to receive your note and think it a most excellent idea. 

Your obedient servant,  
J. Laurens

> Dear Mr. Laurens,  
>  Thank you for your swift response. Your hand should do serviceably in these matters - it bears the elegant strokes of a fine education and it will, no doubt, trouble some future redactor to strike through its admirable lines. 
> 
> Thus far today, I have dealt with missives from the Congress, who have answered our request for more reasonable rations with their own hunger - born from likely cowardice and a lifetime of battles against their waistlines as we battle to fill our own bellies - to see this war acquitted and acquitted hastily. Naturally, I answered reasonably and in his Excellency’s measured tones. The substance of my letters concerns the matters of these supplies, with particular attention to emphasize that the Continentals will not taste victory while our armies eat horse meat. 
> 
> I envision our response to be one that assumes military men can survive on words, paper, and little else. I await your updates with an eager appetite.
> 
> Your obedient (and hungry) servant,  
>  A. Ham. 

 

> Dear Mr. Hamilton,  
>  I regret that my update on today’s piles of letters does not include any substance of note - that which we could eat, or that which we could use to procure such victuals. My hand, and my stomach, regret this news. General Washington is, as always, taciturn in his disappointment, but I can see that this is weighing heavily upon him - both in concern for the men and for the cause of revolution itself. I fear I have become a casualty of our shortages as well, and seek the comfort of sleep if I cannot have the comfort of supper.
> 
> Yrs in hunger,  
>  J. Laurens

 

> My dear Laurens,  
>  Wars, as you allude, are won by bread as much as musket and ball. It is a testament to a keen intellect that you can see both the humanitarian and practical necessity of such matters. It is some small consolation that, in these endeavors, I have found, at least, a like mind. 
> 
> I admit, in my weaker moments and perhaps swayed by the secrecy of this record and your prudent nature, to envision awaking to a line of carts and dray horses, each bearing such good things as meat and salted fish and bread. One finds that the drought of hunger makes for a fertile imagination, and I imagine our combined bliss at the supper table, the foam from full tankards and the chatter of men full of revolutionary spirits. In my more practical mind, I know that such simple repasts that would mean the difference between a cold sleep and a contented one, and pray you are able to find contentment as you slumber now.
> 
> Congress writes today, and they suppose us to be an army of silverfish rather than men, seeing as how our demands for food have yielded only more paper. I have obliged them to return in kind and, perhaps this is an extension of my delirium - or the clarity that hunger affords a body - but have used the useless Continental currency for my correspondence, since it has no other utility in our efforts. I pray His Excellency thinks me bold and not bull-headed. 
> 
> Your most obedient servant,  
>  A. Ham.

 

> My dear Laurens,  
>  I was surprised, and confess myself disappointed, to find that the hair still encircling this book to be my own and not one of yours. Though I understand that, given its lustre, its shimmer like that of the black fleece of which Solomon once sang, not wishing to separate a single strand from its owner. 
> 
> My folly to Congress, it seems, has yielded fruits - or more accurately turnips. Great piles of turnips, their tops white as newly shorn ewes, and His Excellency has set me with the glorious task of their inventory. Still, once roasted and mashed, and with a scant trace of the butter we have remaining to us, they are a feast before famished men.
> 
> I came to find you, though ~~Gilbert~~ the Marquis reported that you’d come riding in with a different supply line (a rumor of pork, perhaps?) and were from these cavalry efforts, exhausted. I found you enjoying the quietness of sleep and, not wishing to trouble you further, have left this message with the promise of a hot meal and companionship when you arise. 
> 
> Your obedient servant and Master of Turnips for the Revolution,  
>  A. Ham.

 

> My dear Ham,  
>  You were correct about these turnips. They are delicious. Thank you for reserving some for me though the men rightly have the greatest need for them. Our revolution should not fall into the traps of the aristocracy - the ocean between our efforts and our colonial masters should baptize us from these ranks and make us all equals at the supper table. (I do confess that I have eaten my share, and my share again, though. It has been an age since I have tasted anything so sweet.) 
> 
> I have spared a hair for this book, though I fear, given our candor, we perhaps will be in need of a sounder lock.
> 
> Yrs,  
>  J. Laurens
> 
> (P.S. The rumors of pork are true. Ask the staff sergeant at the Mercer Mill.)

 

 **Dearest Laurens,**  
Nights are getting colder, friend, and our revolutionary ardors are not enough to accomplish the very practical job of keeping us warm. I fear my Caribbean upbringing has betrayed my capabilities in these matters. I am reluctant to requisition more blankets, as the men are in much dearer need of our existing supplies, and the relative comfort we enjoy here is vastly superior to their experiences in the field.

If you wake to find the bed bearing an impression of another body, I confess, in my weakness, to have made use of the blankets and the attractive bedwarmer here. Though slim, it emits heat like the comfort of a warm fire, and I find it puts me in mind of my schooling to sleep this way. 

Yours,  
Ham.

 

Laurens finds him eating supper. He’s writing, of course, pen in one hand, interchanging it with his fork as necessary. The food is such that Alexander could eat it now, and never hope to taste it, but is better than the nothing they had to eat previously, so he is grateful for it nonetheless.

Laurens removes his hat, as if manners have a place at a soldier’s table. “It’s cold at night,” he says, without greeting.

“Yes,” Alexander agrees, through his dinner.

“It is folly not to continue to sleep as bedfellows, I mean. The General worries after your health.”

Alexander pauses midway through a bite of something claiming to be chicken. “Yes, his _Excellency’s_ worries are well-placed, clearly. As I am the one who has not yet been shot. It’s good that you are so concerned with his Excellency’s wishes such that I -”

“Ham -” Laurens begins. “I just meant that we could share. No offense intended.”

“Apologies, Laurens. I should not take my frustrations at being thought too fragile for the battlefield on you. You meant no insult. You are correct - we should share. It, as you say, is folly not to, and will be an example to the men as a means of conserving heat and space in such difficult times.” 

He gestures, and Laurens sits, Alexander sliding a portion of the day’s meal over to him. Laurens eats as the men do, mostly with his hands, none of the forced niceties of his upbringing, and Alexander thinks of Gideon’s men at the river, kneeling to cup water in their hands. He eats as he seems to do all things, with hunger and urgency, and Alexander can’t help but watch him.

Laurens takes notice of this observation, pausing. “I did mean to ask,” he asks, moping grease up with a hunk of likely-stale bread. “You mentioned a bedwarming pan - I traded mine to Gilbert for a spare blanket. Did you borrow one?”

Alexander nearly chokes on his supper laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ham,” comes a voice from over his shoulder. Laurens, then, probably sent by his Excellency, or perhaps there of his own accord. “There are turnips, and salt pork, and some hoecakes. You should probably eat supper. Or breakfast.”

He’s only been writing for - well, there is no clock in the tent, but shadows have only increased away from the lamp illuminating his desk. Perhaps Laurens is right. 

Still, Alexander bristles. “Laurens,” he says, keeping his tone imperious, or as imperious as he can muster on - when was the last time he slept? No matter. “Please refrain from adding your commentary concerning my obligations of correspondence, since such additions only prolong my absence from the supper table.” 

“Rest, Hamilton,” Laurens says, and he drapes his hands across Alexander’s shoulders. Were this another time - or were Alexander less suddenly exhausted - he might interpret this as something other than Laurens’ familiar concern.

“There is work -” 

“There is always work. Tomorrow and tomorrow, et cetera. But it is almost tomorrow, Ham, and the General worries so, you know.”

“The _General_ -”

“ _I_ worry so, if that’s better,” he says, leaning in, whispering almost, and the hairs on the back of Alexander’s neck begin to stand erect. “I know I lack your eloquence, but hear me: It is late, I am tired, and it is too cold to sleep alone.”

Alexander shivers, a quick involuntary thing. “Let it never be said that I was not persuaded by clear rhetoric.”

“Not everything has to be Cicero, Ham,” Laurens says, against his ear. “Come to bed.”

> Dear Laurens,  
>  Dry wood has become as scarce as a good meal, now, and it has been a fortnight since I have felt warm. I do not often reminisce about my origins, but I find myself longing for the heat, the brightness, the warmth that seemed to sit on my chest. The cold is a different sort of burden. 
> 
> In a few hours, you will rise, hair loose from its plait, still drowsy. I confess it has become a favorite sight. You wonder at my productivity, but I envy your rest - I cannot sleep at times, for dreaming, of places and things that seem better confined to the storerooms of memory. You sleep uninterrupted by such troubles, though I know you carry the weight of our sacred cause as well. 
> 
> You will ask my how I write, why I write, a greeting that has become my ‘good morning.’ My answer is a laugh, a sigh, a set of wiggled fingers to show them as casualties of the inkpot. Now, as night gives me courage, I will tender a real answer: I write because I cannot not write - it rises like an itch from beneath my skin, the scratch of a quill enough to temporarily sate it. It is madness, really, a compulsion, words begetting words.

 

Laurens wakes then and brings the bedclothes with him, draping them and himself across Alexander’s back. Alexander turns to thank him, but Laurens seems to sleep again, body pressed against Alexander’s back, arms around him.

Alexander lifts his pen, and continues:

> A note, then, for the morning. You are kind, Laurens, warm in your dispositions, fiery in your passions, level in your planning. I dreamed of a new life, once, on a distant island, a mind like my own. It is folly, perhaps, to hope I have found it in this cold long winter.
> 
> You are breathing against my neck, mouth damp, body pressed against my own. I - Is it foolish to hope such things as I am now? Such blasphemies feel different uttered in this private folio, the only audience my conscience and a sleeping Carolinian - 

 

“Oh, you have awoken,” Alexander says. “And are reading over my shoulder.”

“Words,” Laurens says, sleepily, “always words with you.” 

“As if words did not beg actions.” Alexander shifts, and Laurens, face shadowed from sleep, lays his head on Alexander’s shoulder. It is an intimacy they had previously not shared, and Alexander does not comment on it for fear of breaking this sudden new layer of friendship between them. “Words taxed our tea, began our war, declared some men free and others bound. They are our only unfixed commodity, a resource both free and inexhaustible.”

“You are inexhaustible,” Laurens complains. “It’s ink on paper, Ham. And too late for any of this.”

“You do not entirely believe that, else you would not be here. But perhaps a demonstration of words made action.”

Laurens looks at him inquiringly, color rising on his cheeks, and Alexander wonders for a minute if his intentions - if their closeness - had not made his meaning evident. 

“I am yours to command, John. Command my hand across the page, and I will do as you ask. Should I write you a poem?”

Laurens shakes his head, smiling, awakening to the nature of this game. 

“No, agreed. It is too late or too early for such fripperies as poetry. Night is a time of honesty. A polemic, perhaps, then. Something pointed and brilliant and mean. Or an appeal to emotion, dripping in pathos.” 

Another shake, this time, a broader smile.

“You have this power over me, as I am yours to command, John, entirely, in mind and body - command me, as I wish to be commanded.” 

Laurens reaches and withdraws Alexander's pen from his hand and, with an aching slowness, tips his head and presses his lips to the center of Alexander's palm. "No more words," he says. "Not written ones, at least."

Alexander inhales, and then licks his lower lip, tasting a smudge of ink there. Laurens draws his hand up and turns his face, slow enough; he swipes his thumb where Alexander’s tongue had been. 

“Some things are not for the page, Ham,” Laurens says, and he leans in. 

 

 **Hamilton,**  
General Washington sent for us early, but the messenger had been instructed not to wake you, to quote, ‘if he even ever sleeps.’ Come when you rise. Apologies for my absence. I had not wished to leave so soon this morning.

Yours,  
John

 

My dearest Laurens,  
It occurs to me that, given the nature of this correspondence and the _sensitive_ and _delicate_ nature of our positions, we should perhaps consider adopting a code for scheduling our more _private_ conferences. I await your input on the matter with bated breath. Please see below for some of my suggestions - and they are mere suggestions - on the matter. I have taken the liberty of sourcing from literature I find both inspirational and appropos, in the hopes of appealing to your more _classical_ inclinations. 

To my dearest Hephaestian. Tonight, we must cross that river from the known world into the unknown, and I require your assistance in traversing these deep and unforgiving waters. Your attendance at my tents is requested, for both the good of the Empire and for my personal well-being. See that you attend yourself as befitting your station; see to yourself with strap and stigil, for our _vigorous_ endeavors require a ready form as well as a willing mind. 

To my dearest Antinous. It would be blasphemy for any man to pretend to make another a god. Yet, I am of a mood to worship, and believe that an evening of contemplation and its attendant kneeling will keep my mind and body pure of such blasphemous thoughts. I pray that such prayers might also linger on your dear lips, and that I will bear witness to the keenness of your exhortations to heaven. We shall commence our services at the setting sun, and I request your presence. Bring your holy book, or, at least, the knowledge of the Our Father, so that you might properly call His name.

To my dearest Patroclus. Night brings with it many assaults - that of the virgin walls of Troy being chief among them. Before we traverse the wine-dark sea between this world and Hades’, I invite you for contemplation suitable to warriors - the thrill of the wrestling circle, the even ground of the gymnasium, where men might compete with naked ambition for glory before retiring to the dim shadow-world of death. Come, friend, and we will not bicker over such trinkets as golden apples. Their destination, in this instance, is certain.

Yours,  
A. Ham.

 

 **Ham,**  
Please refrain from sending such requests as part of your daily correspondence. I had the misfortune to read one such missive over breakfast this morning. General Washington has since sent inquiries concerning my health, such was my coughing fit.

Night is cold, and winter has come. We must set examples for the men, and sleep as soldiers have for centuries. ‘Tis a simple matter, Ham, and one that requires little future documentation.

Yours,  
John

 

 **Dearest Laurens,**  
As always, you have a talent for discerning the heart of the issue. His Excellency inquired after your health, and I found myself afflicted with a similar fit of coughing as you were. He fears it will infect the men, and has ordered me to bedrest for the remainder of the day. I imagine a missive will place you under similar quarantine soon. Bring whatever scraps remain from dinner, as our convalescence will require sustenance to maintain. Oil, I hear, is also good for a cough. 

Yours,  
A. Ham.

 

Dear Laurens,  
I watched as you made your way down the path between the encampment and the main road a week ago. You were leaving to parts hidden, for reasons redacted. Would that I were with you, and not here in this drafty encampment, waging a war of words and not one of deeds. I long for a commision, a mission, some way of testing my mettle and serving our cause.

Alas, I am rewarded with more paper, more ink, a fool and his foolscap. It is night here, it seems, always. I rise and write, retire when exhaustion overtakes me, rise again. I fear I have fallen out of pace with the sun. 

Send some words, dear Laurens, some friendly lines, a note scribbled from a camp desk, news of your continued survival. Men can survive on scraps, if they are the right scraps.

Yours,  
A. Ham.

 

Dear Laurens,  
It is night now - I feel that is when we can best see one another, when the honesty of darkness makes men see one another as we truly are. You are away. I imagine you astride a horse, the wet swath of the stars overhead, the moon a constant lantern. 

There is honor in your mission, in your command. Lafayette says you are reckless; I cannot agree. There is an honesty in your fight that I have seen on the battlefield and in our letters. But perhaps this is recklessness, on my part, on our part, on the part of our cause. What is chess without a sacrificed piece, a felled bishop, a toppled rook? Of course, a pawn does not feel so, one imagines. Do not go in some trifle, some battlefield accident, some mere scratch. 

I have not slept in … I do not know. His Excellency’s pace is as relentless as the thrum of thoughts in my head. I write, I read, I spill ink as men spill blood. I read more. It’s a thicket of words inside my brain, a moving forest, Birnam coming to Dunsinane. It snows, now, but my mind cannot find peace in these glittering fields, only dwell in the dark things at their edges.

Perhaps you think me too forward, too honest, too _much_ , but it is not in my nature to be circumspect, nor I think it is it in your nature to demand circumspection. I long for your return, and little else, except an end to these hostilities. 

If I am melancholy, and unfocused, and unclear, for that I apologize. There is little joy now, only work, work, and the expectation of more work, the dull drudgery of war.

Yours,  
Alexander

 

Ham,  
I am not unfamiliar with the darkness of which you speak. It is cold here, colder than I ever imagined men could be - certainly colder than any Carolina night. There are wolves in these woods, bear and lynx and puma; I do not see them with a naturalist’s eye now. We stand watch over fading fires, each man taking his turn against the bitter wind. 

It is hard to imagine the grandeur of the world when you cannot think beyond your own numb feet. It is hard to see that light, now, the hope of revolution and our cause, when such hope fades like our campfires. I struggle. The men struggle. I can see you are struggling against similar shadows, a chill cast across your spirit. 

I can only ask that you endure. You told me of your first winter in New York, of the surprise of cardinals and robins, the yaps and scraws of birds you did not of have names for, the promise-holders of spring. We must not abandon hope even in the depths of this long winter. I pray that you will not succumb to such melancholies.

Your obedient servant,  
Lt. Colonel J. Laurens

 

> John,  
>  I had wondered what extraordinary measure would lead to your saying my given name, and not some variation or diminutive. I know now that I have been waiting not too long, but for the right circumstance. 
> 
> For I might be Hamilton in his Excellency’s presence, and Lieutenant Colonel before the men, and Ham when in the company of Lafayette - but I am Alexander when you return from a fortnight’s ride, saddle-sore and weary, a dusting of snow across your fine features. I am Alexander when you come to bed, hair damp from a bath, skin scrubbed and fresh, face no longer ashen. I am the same in bed, relearning your mouth, your thighs, the smooth freckled planes of your back. I am he when you wake, hours later, at the pop of a musket, a parade exercise and nothing more - and yet you startle and reach out, reflexive, the whisper of my name a small reassurance that we are not in battle, that we are here and whole and one for now. I know of no finer sound, no better one. 
> 
> Yours, always,  
>  Alexander


	3. Chapter 3

John,  
Forgive the familiarity of this address and, in truth, the familiarity of this letter. You have been abed these past five days with fever, and I carry the concern that you are going to a longer sort of sleep - but no, no, it is not permitted, and I shall not permit myself to think it. 

I have spent these past hours between our bedside and his Excellency’s letters. The war wages on, inexorable, a great slouching beast that carries with it the lives of our men and the future of our country and my commitment stands, as ever, unwavering. 

Yet I find I cannot concentrate at my letters or petitions, or the necessary correspondence of the war, knowing yet you are here, that you should wake with no one to slake your thirst or wipe your brow. Such distractions should not enter my mind, and yet I was distracted, so much that his Excellency found pity amidst his usual temperament and released me from my duties to more expedient ones here. 

You have become dear to me, Laurens, dear as any blanket or morsel of food, dear perhaps, as the notion of the revolution itself. It is perhaps a sign of my own feverish imaginings that I imagine peace now not as a successful secession but instead a simpler vision - ourselves, together, in the warrens of upper Manhattan, a law practice between us. Or perhaps you will have returned to your original calling of medicine or naturalism. The blood and emetics of a common surgeon should not occupy your time - After this war is over, I wish to see you free of all such burdens. - but instead adopt a vocation dedicated to studying the fauna of this new and undiscovered country. 

I discover within myself, then, a peace within this vision, strange considering the fever that you seem to attribute to my waking existence, stranger that I should not find within this vision the confines of housekeeping or, perhaps, husbandry. It is improper to say, improper and treasonous to every law, republican and natural, but I find, writing here in the dark beside you, I cannot summon the will to care. Come back to me, my Laurens, and we will find this peace together. 

Yours, always,  
Alexander

 

>   
>  ~~Dearest~~ Dear Mr. Hamilton,  
>  Now, having arisen while you rest, I have read your thoughts as to the nature of my illness and recovery, and our prospects following the war, and appreciate your brotherly concern for my well-being as a member of the Family, as well as your dutiful attendance to my condition, which was neither as brief nor as pleasant as either of us would have wished. 
> 
> I would wager that, as we are writing both for our present circumstances and for our posterity, some future redactor will agree that your affections were the product of that loyalty that comprises the fierce nature of your character, and nothing more. I would encourage circumspection, lest our communications fall into foreign hands.
> 
> Your obedient servant,  
>  Lt. Colonel John Laurens

 

“What is the meaning of this?” Alexander demands, by way of greeting. He slams the folio down on their shared workspace. “Stop addressing me as a stranger, a _gentleman_. Who are we to each other?”

“Hamilton, I -”

“No, shut up, shut up. I won’t listen to you talk like this. I have been straightforward in my admiration of you, my requests, my loyalties, my declarations of love, have I not?” He runs his hand through his hair, pacing. 

“Someone will _hear_ us,” Laurens whispers fiercely. “If you cannot be quiet about this, we could be tried for -”

“Just let them try, John. Two sons of the revolution. Let them fucking try.” He puts his hands on Laurens’ shoulders, unsure himself if he means to embrace him or shake some sense into him.

“ _Alexander_ , please,” Laurens says, and his voice is desperate, pleading. “ _Please_.” 

Alexander deflates, then, anger draining from him. “Fine. Yes, all right. I will stop. It’s just - do not dismiss me.”

“I will not. It’s just - this is the way the world is, Ham.”

“You can’t mean that,” Alexander says. “You, of all people, you can’t believe this world is so immutable that we can’t change such a simple thing as love.”

Laurens laughs, and it’s a rueful noise, cynical in a way Alexander has never heard him sound. “You are _impossible_.”

“So you keep saying. We’re writing our own story, John, with this war. Why not write this one as well?” He presses his forehead against Laurens’, leaning up so that they are breathing in each other’s space.

“I have - I have struggled with these matters entirely longer than you, my dear impossible Alex. There are some things that cannot be rewritten. Not like this. Not now.”

“But perhaps not never,” Alexander says, and he believes it, deep, as he believes anything. “But - if you will not be swayed by such declarations, then let mine be simple, direct, as you once were with me. Come to bed, John.” He offers a hand, and Laurens takes it.

 

Dearest,  
I am writing this while you sleep, my Hamilton, having retaken my pen from where you had hidden it, most inelegantly, between the bedframe and the wall. It is night, and the camp is quiet. Snow is falling, like the hushed beating of owls’ wings. The world feels small here, for all its vastness, it has narrowed to this writing desk, your breathing, this brief candle illuminating your face. 

I am not a poet, Alex, but -

Alex, what I mean to say. What I am trying to say, is that your presence in my bed is not something I want left to the speculations of wagging tongues. We can’t - I can’t. You accomplish the impossible twice a day - some might say this war is in itself, an impossibility, and yet there are impossibilities and _impossibilities_ , and what you are proposing isn’t possible, isn’t practicable, particularly given your ambitions beyond your current station. 

You should want for a wife - you should need one, and children, and all the joys attendant to those endeavors. I have left such a life behind, wedded instead to the revolution, but I know my life will be forfeit as surely as your fortunes will be assured. 

You tell me to cast aside my burdens, yet the burden I would bear at preventing your happiness - I simply cannot endure that. Understand that your affections are returned, but I will not permit those affections to become obstacles.

I am departing, now, to broker for such things as I am able - my mission to the Congress is too long delayed here. 

Yours,  
John

 

John,  
Love isn’t gold, some cold coinage to sit in a miser’s purse. Love is not neither finite nor fixed, a debt to be repaid, a static commodity. I hold my love for you with no expectation of return, some chit to be satisfied and forgotten. Instead, it grows, with interest, daily, such that in lending it to others, I am rewarded with ample return.

Should I marry - if I should marry, when I marry - know that such a union does not preclude a continuation of our friendship. Our union is 13 states; surely, a more private union may survive with three. 

Survive this war, John, and the fractious peace that will surely follow. The future will require men of your passions and talents - the nation will, and I will. There will be a place for you, John, a place of our making, a new and undiscovered country of the heart. 

I wish my words had such power as to make you believe - that words had the force of actions, that, like Prospero calling to the cliffs, I could summon such realities with the flicks of a pen. Alas, I cannot. Like our new country, I can only make promissory notes, and hope that such declarations will someday be redeemed.

Yours, if you will have me,  
Alexander

 

Alexander,  
You are braver, or perhaps more foolish, than I. I live in hope that our new country, should it come into being, is a free and equal one. Yet, in the shadows of my mind, I cannot escape the notion that revolution will not change these most basic principles that seem to govern man - that some have, and some have not, be it freedom or love or money. Would that your words could make it so. Would that they could make me believe otherwise.

I should not answer your declarations of love with such melancholy. We have the bright light of revolution to guide us. Perhaps that will be enough for now.

Yours,  
John


	4. Chapter 4

Lieutenant Colonel Laurens,  
I have received word of your detainment in Pennsylvania. I write to inquire after your health, your state of mind, the wound you have (again) taken in your shoulder, the condition of your heart. It is a wide prison you have achieved for yourself, but a prison nonetheless, and I wish as I have always wished, that we might exchange thoughts freely in your detainment, that the petty bars that now restrain your body do not restrain your thoughts and affections. 

I inquire, however, as to the level and degree to which our correspondence is monitored by your captors, and will resolve to keep my own correspondences prudent until such time as I can be assured of their confidentiality. His Excellency has, by my hand, appealed to your jailers - such is the influence of the Laurens’ name, for good or for ill - though it seems that there will be a delay in such negotiations until a broader peace is settled. 

I remain at the disposal of the Marquis, his Excellency, and the hospitality of those whose home we have temporarily requisitioned for our efforts. There are balls, now, and dinners, and all sorts of events for which manners like yours, and a mind like yours, would relieve the tedium. I have been pleased to make the acquaintance of many of the fine daughters of our revolutionary friends, and find myself refreshed by such company - thinking both of your absence and your wish to see me thus occupied. 

The Marquis thinks me feral in these regards, and perhaps I am, without my Laurens and his fine manners to tend to me. Take care of yourself, and know that your friends think of you often and wish for your speedy return.

Your obedient servant,  
Alexander Hamilton

 

Alexander,  
My captors care little for scribblings, little for my comings and goings, and, in truth, little for anything but a swift denouement to these hostilities. I am scarcely monitored, and what little I am is merely to ensure my father has an accurate record of my movements. What their soldiers have in food, clothing, and materiel, they lack in conviction. The war, as you predicted, is to be won not on victory but on exhaustion.

I find myself producing words, while not as polished as your own, at an alarming pace. There is nothing like the static reflections of a cell to make a man’s mind restless, and I scrawl essay after essay, such that my healing shoulder will allow. Words are my only weapon, now that I find my pistol and musket replaced with pen and paper. I imagine you over my shoulder, as I once leaned over yours, and find comfort in that reminiscence. 

Still, I cannot but remark at my impotence, sitting here, unable to do more than send petition after petition and post after post - to be met with refusal or, worse, silence. Perhaps my captors are disposing of these missives after all, or perhaps my father - but no, this is the beginning of madness and paranoia. I wish to fight, perhaps to die, but at least to be an actor and not a trapped bird, no matter how mild the cage. 

I am pleased to hear of your pursuits, and wish to see you happily settled. Think less of me, until such time as we are reunited. 

Your obedient servant,  
J. Laurens

 

John,  
I could never think less of you - and I could not bear to think less of you. Your detention is, in part, a blessing in that I know of your safety. And yet, I know you, John, and you will never be happy in such boundaries, safe when others are threatened. Still, I know of your frustrations, feeling chained to a desk when one would prefer to wield a gun. 

I have expressed these concerns to his Excellency, enough that they have become a background melody in our daily interactions, and yet he makes no effort to extend me a commission or a mission, such as my proposal to bargain for your release. Perhaps more practically, such efforts lie with your father. 

I implore you to stay strong, to stay my good and honest friend, to not allow your physical confines to confine your mental efforts. Do not think your rhetorical efforts in vain: Send me your treatises, your letters, your words. 

You once scoffed that words could not replace actions, yet, your words may induce efforts - a regiment of your making, a war ending, our swords exchanged for ploughshares, though I will surely make a poor farmer. I was not meant to scratch in soil as assuredly as you were not meant to pace the narrow bounds of Pennsylvania. 

As for my other activities: I pursue these now with enthusiasm tempered by thoughts of your absence. If I find myself in a more vigorous mood - or at least a less melancholy one - I should think to write a list of requirements for a wife, one submitted for your revision or approval. Such follies, though, exist for another time. 

For now, focus on the present, and know that our present circumstances need never guarantee our future stations. The world is ours for the making, John, and our story is never fully written until it is done. 

Yours, as ever,  
Alexander

 

Alexander,  
Forgive the brevity of this note - I am writing as my boat navigates the border separating us, that invisible line between occupation and liberation. You are but two day’s hard ride away, a lifetime, a moment, and it feels like the space is both infinite and a hair’s width. I am free, Alex, and the world seems new, somehow, green as spring, though it’s barely done unshouldering winter. 

There is wind on the water, and I’ve stood too long watching as you draw nearer to me. I am not a poet, Alex, not gifted with pen or quill, no fine orator or rhetorician. In another life, perhaps, I would have another vocation - a naturalist, as you suggest, or a doctor. 

But in this life, I am only what I am: a rich man’s son, a soldier, your friend. This honesty is a product, no doubt, of having seen the world more clearly from the confines of my imprisonment. This is a time for words, prettier words than I have to give, but also for action. I depart for camp, to you, briefly, and then for the Carolinas. There is fighting there, and I long for such necessary purpose after my long dormancy, to emerge as the new leaves do, ready for such action as battle brings. You speak of ploughshares, but there is a time for swords as well. All rivers flow to the sea, and the sea is never full - so too must our struggle be until liberation is at hand. 

Once our labors are done, there will be a time for rest. That time, should there be such a time, remains for now between us a promise, though a promise I have every intention of keeping - to parallel our national union with, as you say, a more private one. You tell me of our story, as if each word you write is its own history, and perhaps it is. A new chapter will be written now, I hope, as I hope to return to you once more. 

Yours, soon,  
John


	5. Chapter 5

John,  
It is an odd and terrible thing to write a letter to a corpse. Forgive my brevity - and my honesty - for I find that words, once my greatest device, have abandoned me. I dip into the well of myself and find it has become dry, a desert of thought and emotion since news of your passing reached us. You were my wellspring, my water in the arid places of my soul, at once an antidote to and an encouragement of thirst.

My Betsey is well and dear and true, and sends her love for you with my wishes. She is a good woman, and her sentiments are unconfined by the structures and niceties of language. She remarks of your goodness, your dearness to me, your handsomeness from the profile I showed her, and your youth. I find myself much in agreement.

No post can deliver this letter - no pale rider, no paddler across the River Styx. I burn it now, it and our old folio, and hope their ashes, as they drift skyward, reach the heaven in which you have made your new and permanent home. 

I made a promise to you once, my dearest Laurens, my dearest, Laurens - that love would beget love, compounding, that we would have our peace someday. I pray you have found it now.

Your obedient servant,  
Alexander


End file.
